So spoke the king, and, to confirm his word, From far away in the deep night was heard Once more the fairy horn-call, clear and shrill; It died upon the wind, and all was still. The hour was late. King Arthur, rising, said Good-night to all his court, and went to bed.
In Canto I. I followed the old rule We learned from Horace when we went to school, And took a headlong plunge _in medias res_, As Maro did, and blind Mæonides; And now, still following the ancient mode, I come to the time-honored "episode," Retrace my way some twenty years or more, And tell you what I should have told before. It seems an awkward method, but it's art;-- Besides, it brings us back to Elfinhart.
In those dark days before King Arthur came, When Britain was laid waste with sword and flame, When cut-throats lurked behind the blossoming thorn, And young maids cursed the day when they were born, A lady, widowed in one hideous night, Fled over heath and hill, and in her flight Came to the magic willow-woods that stand Beside the Murmuring Mere, in Fairyland; And there, untimely, by the forest-side, Clasping her infant in her arms, she died. Yet not all friendless,--for such mortal throes Pass not unpitied, though no mortal knows;-- The spirits that infest the clearer air Looked down upon the innocent lady there, While troops of fairies smoothed her mossy bed And with sweet balsam pillowed her fair head. Her dim eyes could not see them, but she guessed Whose gentle ministrations thus had blessed Her travail; and when pitying fairies laid Upon her heart the child,--a blue-eyed maid,-- Ere yet her troubled spirit might depart, With one last word she named her "Elfinhart."
So with new-quickened love the fairy elves Took the forlorn child-maiden to themselves And reared her in the wildwood, where no jar Of alien discord, echoing from afar, Broke the sweet forest murmur, long years round. Her ears, attuned to every woodland sound, Translated to her soul the great world's voice, And the world-spirit made her heart rejoice. And love was hers,--perennial, intense,-- The love that wells from joy and innocence And sanctifies the cloistered heart of youth,-- The love of love, of beauty, and of truth.
So Elfinhart grew up. Each passing year Of forest life beside the Murmuring Mere Enriched tenfold the natural dower of grace That shone from the pure spirit in her face. I cannot tell why each revolving season Enhanced her beauty thus. Some say the reason Was in the stars; _I_ think those luminaries Had less to do with it than had the fairies! The more they found of grace in her, the more Their silent influence added to her store; For they were always with her; they and she Still bore each other loving company.